The Road to Hell
by DAmaratsu
Summary: Is said to be paved with good intentions. When Dean becomes a demon under the Mark of Cain, Castiel will do anything to remain by his side.
1. Chapter 1

**The rights to the idea go to supernaturalapocalypse on tumblr, who has given permission for me to write this and sadly I don't own Supernatural. Sigh. If you notice any mistakes let me know and just let me know what you think period. What you liked about it and what you didn't like about it; it would help in my growth as an author.**

The news of Dean becoming a demon and going to Hell was numbing. Surreal. A part of him didn't believe it, couldn't believe it. Dean was the Righteous Man with a soul that was incorruptible; bright and pure. Untouchable by even the darkest shadow and taint; the torture of Hell, the time as a torturer of Hell hadn't been able to permanently scar his soul. To hear of Dean's corruption was enough, he had to see it for himself.

He greeted Sam at the door, and exchanged pleasantries, but Sam knew why he was here and soon enough they stood before the door that contained Dean. The panic room; always the panic room. Sam turned to him with a reassuring smile and large hand clasping his shoulder firmly; an offering of strength. He felt he would need it and returned the gesture; Dean was Sam's brother and he would not be blindsided of his pain by his own, Sam was hurting about Dean just as much as he was.

He stepped through the door, felt them close behind him and ring with absolution, and took in the way Dean casually stood in the center of a devil's trap. And thought that maybe perhaps it was a joke, a prank, but the black entirety of his eyes weren't lies, they were very much real. Dean was a demon now. He spent an hour in that room, watching Dean make flippant gestures to go along with his usual light teasing banter, watched as he acted like everything was normal, like he was normal and unchanged. And somehow that was worse than if Dean had been possessed by anger and bloodlust.

He and Sam try everything. The usual method of demon curing proves ineffective and any information they found said the same thing; reversing the effect of the Mark was impossible. They even went to Crowley and Cain desperate for help and a solution, but they were gone. Dean's wicked grin and coy mocking tone was all they needed to understand. He was gone the next day.

The idea came to him one day, when he and Sam where hunting a crossroads demon and he knew then and there what he would do. His grace continued to dwindle and the angels that had been under his command kept insisting he reclaim his true grace, but they didn't understand, they didn't realize that he wanted his grace to finish burning out so that he could be human, so he could be with Dean in Hell after he made his deal. He had spent countless nights thinking about what he wanted for his deal, rolling and turning the wish over and over in his head until he came upon the one he truly wanted, a wish he would wholly give his soul for.

The crossroad demon stood before him, cocky in stance, leisurely fiddling with the rings that adorned his long fingers, but a slight beading of sweat at his hairline betrayed his nervousness. The deal was simple; protection over Sam, Mrs. Tran, and the remaining Novak family members in exchange for his soul a month from now. The demon agreed to the deal under the surety that Sam wouldn't come after him and try to kill him in order to break the contract; he was never more grateful for the reputation of the Winchesters. The sealing kiss of the deal was nothing like he would've expected had he kissed Dean. It was bitter and cold, flitting as if the demon was afraid of being burned by any residue grace in him, nothing like the smoldering passion that Dean's kiss would feel like. In his remaining month of life he traveled and visited everyone assuring them that he would be returning to Heaven permanently. There was no need to tell them about the deal and about his impending trip to a Hell, he wanted to leave them with a sense of peace and happiness so he told a white lie. He was returning to his rightful home after so long and no one could fault him for that. It was the right thing to do and when the hellhound came for him he felt no regret.

**next up torture in Hell. Ps since this is already a sad AU I'm going to make it even more sad by making it unrequited love(possibly,maybe,kinda...hehe you'll have to wait and suffer to see :D)so prepare yourselves, also I intend to write graphic depictions of said torture soooooooo yeah. Enjoy :]**


	2. Chapter 2

He had been to Hell before, there was no doubt about that. But the last time he had been here he was an Angel of The Lord with divine power and grace to back him and as he stood here he recognized a certain level of fear that wasn't present during his previous visits. Hell was terrifying even to the demons that called this place their own and he began to understand why, it was evil and radiated sin more darkly than he realized was truly possible. It was different than he last recalled. Yes, Hell bowed to the whim of its current king but others had always struggled to seize their own portion. Some even managed to carve out their own personal Hell, even for the slightest moment, causing shifts that never stayed steady and were unpredictable with vitality and nature. There were no shifts this time, not in this version. This new king's power was absolute. And this Hell was a reflection of that, an even more fear strickening place.

A single craggy path of stone stretched into an infinite vastness, the souls of the damned lined up and trudging down it. All around the path-above, below, beside- there was nothing, nothing but acrid smoke that billowed from fires that stank of sulfur and burning flesh. Putrid and clinging. It was dark but for the light of the flames beneath them, everything varying shades of black and gray and red in this barren and cold and silent Hell. So silent...so cold. There wasn't a whisper of noise, no screams, just an eerie silence that made his skin itch, gut twist, and heart pound. It felt like something was watching him and he had to resist the urge to turn and pull his nonexistent angel blade from his sleeve and instead he looked over his shoulder multiple times. Trying to satisfy his paranoia with images of nothing. The line progressed and flames began to leap up and swirl and solidify into cells reminiscent of a prison's, sleek living steel. Glowing red hot chains bursting out and grabbing at someone, pulling them off the path and into the cell, the more they struggled the more chains that wrapped around them, drawing them inside it, then it would fade. That was the only time there was noise, people would scream and howl and struggle as the chains sizzled against the skin, charring and blackening it. It was sickening to hear them shriek out grotesque and animal noises and see them reach out toward nothing and receive nothing. It made him ache to unleash his powers, to cast aside his mortal shell and, in a sweeping blaze of brilliance, save that person from eternity in a real Hell. He was grateful when it was quiet again. But then the silence would get to him and he would wish to hear something, anything.

Eventually he was the only person walking the path. He walked until his feet ached, and then until they blister, and finally they bleed, leaving behind murky and glistening scarlet feet to bejewel the dirt with spots of shining cruelty as trophy. And the scene around him began to corrode, warping and twisting from the path and blurring to a decorated throne room. The change brought a severe vertigo, bile rose in his throat and he swayed side to side, falling to his knees and shutting his eyes tightly, willing the spinning walls to stop, as dancing navy and purple and sage colors painted a kaleidoscope beneath his eyelids. A ringing raucous laugh sounded in his ears and he looked up and stared at the figure sitting in a throne. It was Dean, splayed out on a divan with demon sluts draped over him. He rose up slowly, approaching him and he struggled to stand himself. But it wasn't necessary, as soon as Dean was upon him he was grabbed by the throat and lifted off his feet. The grip wasn't entirely constricting but it was tight enough to cause discomfort and he instinctively clutched at Dean's arm.

"You're the last person I expected to see in Hell." Dean's expression was amused, but in his words are a question, and he answers.

"I didn't have a choice." Dean laughs and cuts himself off abruptly, face cold and serious.

"Why'd you sell your soul?"

"To be with you, Dean"

"What?" Dean looks genuinely surprised now, but there is a underlying something that sets him on edge.

"There was no cure for the Mark. I couldn't save you Dean, I'm sorry. I'd rather have you. Cursed or not. Remember?" And a desperate part of him hoped.

"You know demons don't have feelings, right?"

"Neither do Angels, and I fell for you." Dean's face is stoic and blank and he is dropped to the ground, grabbed by the collar, and dragged away. Down twisting hallways of decaying flesh and sparkling stained glass mimicking miasma and flame. They entered a room, lavish and ornate is design with dark seductive colors, occupied with only a desk and a large bed. the bed is covered in silks and furs and when they lay down it feels as though he's swimming and yet being securely cradled by a cloud.

"Sleep." It's a command and he suddenly realizes how tired he is, how exhausted. Sleep comes swiftly.

* * *

It starts out small, really, little things that niggle at the back of his mind.  
Noises, scratching and creaking, which Dean assures him is nothing. Eventually they stop, so he forgets and moves on. But he listens closely.  
Then it's silent, so silent it reminds him of the long trek to here and more distantly off when he was deaf to his siblings. The silence breeds dark thoughts in him and he is desperate for some kind of distraction from himself. Dean indulges him for some odd hours of the day everyday but he's busy running Hell and he seems to believe that all of Castiel's problems are simply figments of his; they're not he knows they're not.  
Eventually mundane sounds begin to filter in through the walls-gossiping chatter, footsteps-and they drift in from underneath the door, but he always hums to himself just in case. Just in case.  
Dean begins to spend more time with him and things seem to start looking up, everything is domestic in a way. But the lights flicker. Dean brushes off his claims and he believes him. Believes that he's just seeing things. So he pushes it from his mind and ignores the signs that say the lights are dimming and brightening, because they aren't. But his mind persists with the knowledge that they are and he can't keep convincing himself that they aren't fluctuating in their brightness. He vehemently tries to prove it to Dean, to prove to him that the lights_ aren't working_, so he can do something about it, so he can be _saved_ from hysteria and darkness. But Dean laughs at his attempts, denying that there is anything wrong with the lights. He blinks and sees things. He blinks again and they are gone. But he knows they're there...or are they?

* * *

The noises return. Bangs and groans and screams. They're wild and loud and he realizes... Sounds of carnal pleasure, it's the sounds of Dean having sex with whores, with whom ever was willing. He confronts Dean intending to ask for more stealth in his _activities _but Dean denies what he obviously knows is true. And he is confused and hurt. He has always known Dean was partial to intercourse, so why lie to him? It is a small hurt to his heart, he had thought they had passed the stage of withholding things from one another, that their friendship and trust had been mended; perhaps he was wrong. He distances himself from Dean hoping it would appease him, that if would fix their relationship if he allowed Dean the luxury and belief that he did not know about his nightly conquests. He suffers for his kindness. He lies awake for nights, not being able to sleep with the sounds coming through the flimsy wall. The effects of it also start small. Aching muscles and a slight tremor in his hands that makes it difficult to hold things. He begins to forget where his room is, but he never forgets the reason why. Headaches throb in the back of his eyes leaving him confined to his bed where the incessant shrieks and moans further grate on his already dwindling temperament. He begins lashing out at things, mainly the _stupid wall_ that's too thin to hold in anything, but his foul moods are quickly replaced with deep sadness, from where he does not know, he only knows that it is somehow linked to Dean.

The hallucinations don't help. The lights flare up like the sun and he sees large masses. bloated and swollen and scorched black. Layers of fat folding over, flaking skin pulling away at the edges of infected scabs. Congealed droplets of rouge and white and yellow pus bursting from underneath, the scabs slowly sliding free revealing fatty milky blubber. The lights burst in showers of sparks and in the shadows he sees tall willowing figures. Skeletons of gray skin clinging to bare bones, creaking with every movement like an aged wooden marionette, a hollow moan signing and whistling through a black mouth. Tunneled vacant eyes following his every move, rivulets of black streaming from them like mournful tears. Mirrors uncover a more hideous thing; himself. He is aged and scaly with feathered white hair. With shaking hands he reaches for the shedding sagging snake skin, trembling as he pulls it away from his face, strands of skin tugging on the tender cords of sinew and bright pink muscle on his face and it melted in his hands. Tuffs of sliver and white strands of hair falling to the floor and he peels and pulls his skin free from his body until he is but a musculature; the only thing left was the skin of his hands and feet. His nails ache, a tingle starting at the base and quickly turning into a burning sensation and he is acutely aware of his nails beginning to wiggle free from his cuticle, his fingers wiggling with them seemingly wanting to follow the nails as the fall, making little plinking sounds as they hit the ground. The rest of his skin falling away with ease.

He stiffly curled up in bed, trying to push the horror away, laying in a fugue only dimly aware of the tingling growth of a new skin. He drifts and feels sleep carrying him and he greatly begins to fall into his dreams. Then Dean stumbles into the room in a frantic fumble of limbs, desperately tearing clothes away from golden sweaty forms and he rears up in a righteous fury. He pushes Dean aside and seizes the foul demon _bitch _that had previously been sucking off Dean's mouth by the neck and squeezes. He hears bones crack and the woman gasped, gagging on no air and with a satisfying snap her neck is broken, head falling with a thump to the floor as he drops her body with a lewd squelch, the crushed remains of her neck sticking in between his fingers. He rounds on Dean spitting words of viciousness, demanding peace for sleep and Dean's face is colored with remorse and sincerity and he is earnestly promised such in the future once the verbal tongue lashing is done. They lay in bed, his bloody right hand clasped with Dean's left, and settle down for sleep, the demon's blood pouring around her voluptuous yet forgotten body. He dreams are filled with rich laughter and dappling sunshine, and he wakes up refreshed and happy.

the next time he kills, he sees. His knuckles are split and bleeding and its head is bashed in, face crumpled inward, nose pushed in and puncturing the brain which is escaping from the cracks and holes in the back of the skull. He is sickened by the display, by his agression and turns his eyes away. But he cannot escape the carnage, the wall in front of him is the only thing he can see and it's splattered with blood, bits of bone and gray matter stuck in a dent, clumps of dark brown hair ladled with blood slowly sliding down under its own weight. He is revolted by his kill. Killing demons was no shame to him, it is what they had always done and there was no reason for remorse. But he has never killed another in fury, never without regret for the soul it had once been, but for a moment he had been virtuous and powerful, he had been prideful. He is stunned by how his surroundings have changed him. Dean doesn't reach out in any kind of attempt to assuage his guilt, because Dean is proud as well, proud of him for his kill and he is reminded that this is not Dean. It is a demon with Dean's face and he is shocked at how he had fallen into its lie, fallen into its perverted imitation. He had known that it would not Dean and still he had come, in the hopes that he could save Dean as he had once before. He had not thought he would become trapped too.

The silence at night that was once a blessing is now a curse. It feeds him with guilt and nothing else and his body wastes away, his mind cracking under pressure. Dean is tender and kind, coaxing him to eat or drink the barest minimum he can even though here he doesn't need it. It is not Dean he knows, but this Dean has shown him more kindness than the real Dean would and he wonders... Is it so wrong to indulge and enjoy? He sleeps..and sleeps. And cloying obsidian eyes watch, watch and see.

* * *

I originally meant for this to be a three shot but this felt like a good stopping point and my physical torture is going to be longer than I thought it was. This is the mental side of Cas's torture and it's setting up the stage for the physical kind. I hope you liked it and that it was appropriately torture-ish. ;P let me know what you think and what you would like to see. (I don't own SPN)


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